DANIELLE LISLE

ROMANCE WRITER

I have to say, I love being a mum. I love the cheeky smile of my four year old that melts my heart and the way he asks the strangest questions – though I suppose for a four year old, they’re not that strange. I love how he has no sensor about what come out of his mouth, “Look! Mum, it’s a boy cow!” he stated just the other day as we passed a cow with a rather impressive ‘package’. He is now at an age where nothing much in the way of life bothers him really. Yet, I’m sad. My little boy is growing up.

I suppose there had been more than one sign of this taking place. He is in his final term at pre-school. He is an avid BMX racer and is not at all afraid of the same things as me. He has no problem getting on my Thoroughbred – all 15.3hh of him, nor does he care when a snake moves in the garden before him. He is of hard-nosed Territory stock and that makes me proud, but sad. Yep - my little boy is growing up.

Yesterday as we were driving home from school and there I was, rocking it out to some new hit on the radio, fake microphone in hand and unfazed by the strange looks of other motorists as they pass by. I was singing at the top of my lungs, totally in the moment, until I hear from the back seat, “Mum, just stop. You’re no Wiggle.” I pause in my final solo and glance into the rear-view mirror only to see him shaking his head as he gazes out the window. Oh – I’ve become an embarrassment to him already. My little boy is growing up.

The more time I spend researching into the so-called illness of ‘Female Hysteria’ , I find myself further dumbfounded and incredibly amused by the denseness of humanity at one time or another. In my first post in this series, I talked about the condition itself before moving onto the amusing topic of historical vibrators. Yes, they did exist and were somewhat scary for those of us who are slightly delicate (no one should miss that post!). Yet, it was towards the end of my studies where I discovered ‘The Fainting Room’ and what its true purpose was.

“A fainting room was a private room of one’s house of which its main features/furniture were fainting couches - used during the Victorian era to make women more ‘comfortable’ during the home treatment of female hysteria. Fainting rooms were used by doctors for privacy during home treatment pelvic massages.”

For those of you who are unfamiliar with ‘Female Hysteria’ allow me to give you a brief rundown. According to physicians throughout history, women were subjected to an illness called ‘Hysteria’ where the woman would display a number of symptoms from shortness of breath, irritability and vaginal leakage to sexual fantasies and "a tendency to simply cause trouble". The treatment for this was a pelvic massage performed by a doctor - and later on, when the first vibrator was invented, it was also used in treating the illness. Nowadays, ‘Female Hysteria’ is no longer regarded as an illness and is simply known as sexual frustration.

The thing that I find additionally fascinating is that reoccurring sufferers of the ‘illness’ had a room built in their home specifically for undergoing their treatment!

The Fainting Room was a small room, often with only one window and normally at the top of the stairs. It also serviced the other purpose of being a true ‘Fainting Room’ thanks to the fashion of the hourglass figure and suffocating corsets. Women often retired to the ‘Fainting Room’ whenever they became faint or wished for a moment alone to rest when entertaining.

Its furniture consisted of a ‘Fainting couch’ which are easily differentiated from more traditional couches, having one end of the back raised. It was thought they took on this design so doctors administrating ‘treatment’ could gain easy access to their patients without them having to disrobe.

THE VIRGIN AT GOODRICH HALL, my second historical erotic novel, takes place in a manor just outside London called Goodrich Hall. It is a place where lust and fornication roam free. It is whispered about among the ton, both despised and admired by those wishing for the privileged chance to step within its doors, though few ever truly obtain the chance.

In this second instalment of the ROGUES OF DECEPTION series, Lady Margaret knew her father would choose her a suitor soon, but how could she find passion with a man twice her age? With the fear she would never experience anything with her husband other than her duty of providing him an heir, she set out for Goodrich Hall, a whispered about mystery of the ton. Propriety and good sense be damned, she would not die without experiencing the pleasure a real man could offer!

As soon as the young maiden entered the Hall, Victor knew he would have her. Her masked face and barely there silks, which clung to her with a lust of their own, sent a rush of need through his body. It was not until she melted against him later, her passion fully stated, did he realise she was more to him than he first thought.

Perhaps I am simply as naive as those youthful girls in the historical novels I write, but when I think of the ‘vibrator’, ‘Rampant Rabbit’, ‘B.O.B’ (Battery Operated Boyfriend) or whatever you choose to call it, I envisage its creation to come out of the ‘flower-power generation’ or perhaps the early fifties at a stretch. History on the other hand has its creation a fair time earlier.

I hesitated prior to writing this post, the main reason being it sent me into a giggling frenzy and had me blushing like the green schoolgirl of my youth at the simple thought of it. Even now, as I type this, I peer around the room wondering when my husband will walk in, then stare in either outrage or interest as he notices the pictures on my computer screen as I study the first ‘vibrator’.

It really did surprise me to learn that while the first vibrator did differ a great deal from what we women hold in our hot little hands today, the idea of it came around some time ago.

The first vibrator actually came about in 1734, but as you would assume, it was hardly diminutive and, like the first model in any appliance or machine, it needed some ‘tweaking’. In 1869, the first steam-powered vibrator was born, but it was basically a loud, rattly machine that was hidden in the other room with the ‘penetration device’ emerging out through a hole in the wall. I find myself attempting to envisage what the women would have heard and seen when walking into the room with ‘it’ bobbing back and forth through the wall. Think about it… an old steam-powered engine, let’s say a train, the hissing of steam as it was released, the ‘chugger, chugger’ perhaps of the engine itself, let alone the clang of the gears and whine of the belts as they whizzed around, gaining momentum. There would also be an ‘operator’ on the other side of the wall, checking the power output and making sure it didn’t slow down or speed up… or perhaps that was the point? *shakes head* Either way, I’m not sure, and I’m not certain I need to know that much information anyway. But it does pose the question: How could a woman focus on anything like the ‘task at hand’ with all that going on?

In THE ROSES BLOOM, my first historical erotic novel and ELLA finalist, the heroine has been informed by a dear friend that a woman requires a husband for nothing more than his seed to sire an heir, as a woman can find pleasure herself with nothing more than her fingers. As this first instalment of the ROGUES OF DECEPTION series takes place in 1803, there was little access to such ‘devices’ as we have just talked about above. She therefore takes her friends advice and attempts to take matters into ‘her own hands’. However, doing so by a river might not have been the wisest idea, especially as the neighbouring lord just happened to be out hunting alone at the time and comes across her appearing to have a difficult time following her friend’s instructions. He saw it as his duty to assist the poor damsel in distress… he was a gentleman after all. *cheeky grin*

Apparently, it was not the ‘husband’s responsibility’ to pleasure his wife. Nah, he left that to the doctor.

While researching this topic, I found my mouth was constantly agape as I read through article after article, fascinated, shocked and slightly amused by the foolishness of humanity on this certain subject during history. The earth being flat came to mind several times, and I wonder if you too will have the same reaction as you read on.

Female Hysteria –
“an illness in which the patent suffered from symptoms such as faintness, nervousness, insomnia, heaviness in abdomen, muscle spasm, shortness of breath, irritability, sexual fantasies and vaginal lubrication as well as a ‘tendency to simply cause trouble’”. *Is anyone else’s eyebrow rising as they read this?*

I couldn’t help but laugh as I read articles from doctors in the 19th century where they claimed it was ‘their responsibility’ to treat these women for Hysteria. What we now know as ‘sexual frustration’ was treated by doctors (and sometimes midwives) through ‘pelvic massage’ until the patient achieved a...
ahem...‘
hysterical paroxysm’. These days - and in the field that I’m in - I’d classify it as an orgasm, little death, explosion or something similar. But call it what you will, it all means the same thing. The family doctor would ‘massage’ her lady parts until she, well.... you know.

Through my research, I can’t help but think it was an excuse more than anything and I find myself glaring at the husbands of these poor women. What are they doing? Nothing with their wives, apparently.

As a romance writer, I’d love to believe that no woman would live without experiencing at least one orgasm in their life and if it had to be at the doctor’s hands, then so be it. But it strikes me as odd how the doctors, husbands and even these women couldn’t see the ‘treatment’ as sexual. According to both doctors journals and articles written at the time, any reference to treatment of ‘Female Hysteria’ was dismissed as being sexual as there was no penetration involved. This became somewhat harder to defend when the invention of ‘vibrators’ - which voided this point - slowly became the preferred method of treatment.

In 1957, ‘Female Hysteria’ was legislated out of existence by the American Psychiatric Association. The main reason behind this was that vibrators used to treat this ‘illness’ started to become used in the earlier forms of pornography.
Ding, ding! Ahhh, now they see it!

In
THE ROSE'S BLOOM, my first historical erotic novel and
ELLA finalist story, the heroine has been informed by a dear friend that a woman requires a husband for nothing more than his seed to sire a heir, as a woman can find pleasure herself with nothing more than her fingers.

It’s good to see at least one woman knew the truth and is spreading the word!

My heroine therefore takes her friends advice and attempts to take matters into ‘her own hands’ so to speak. However, doing so by a river might not have been the wisest idea, especially as the neighbouring lord just happens to be out hunting alone at the time and comes across her appearing to be having a difficult time in following her friends instructions. He was a gentleman after all, and saw it as his duty to assist the poor damsel in distress. *giggle*

This is a expert of a guest blog post I did back in August 2012. To view the original, click here!

I like to consider myself a simple and somewhat normal girl, though like everyone else, I have my subtle (and sometimes not so subtle) desires.

Like most others, I enjoy the simple smell of the country air, the happy smile of my son when he arrives home from school and the simple, but sometimes arduous, task of a clean and well-kept home. I love chilling back with a beer after a hard day’s labour and spending a few well-overdue hours tending to the farm and riding my horse. Yet, no matter where I am, or what I’m doing, I’m constantly thinking of my next hero.

Now, that should not make my husband feel nervous—God knows he’s used to it by now—my mind just wonders to what hero will whisk my latest heroine away from harm or her boring and lonely life.

Heroes come in many different shapes and sizes, though I have to admit the majority of authors (yes—I’m guilty also) tend to favour the six-foot-something, well-endowed, alpha guy as their hero of choice. But in all honesty I sometimes feel that while we do write fiction, reality tends to creep into our heroes also. While I can’t recall reading a romance about a beer-bellied butcher recently, I know that that kind of hero exists—he exists in the form of my hubby. Reality and one’s ideal reality do not always align; but at the end of the day, if that hero lives to make the heroine happy and their love prospers into happiness, doesn’t that make him the perfect hero?

I would have thought so, but then I find myself asking—Why don’t I feature beer-bellied butchers as the heroes in my stories? Well, for one I write historicals and I can’t imagine that there was much pleasant or sanitary about the trade back in Regency England and, secondly, I come home to that reality every day and a part of me—yes, a small tender part—likes to dream about what could have been.

My husband has long come to terms with me growling quietly under my breath as a few, hunky Army men walk by, because he knows, beyond any doubt, that I love him. He is my hero—but who said I still can’t fantasise about someone else?

Without a shadow of a doubt I know this is why I write. Each heroine of mine is created using a small part of me, a part of me that may be somewhat dormant or unexplored. I simply let my desires come out through my fingers to connect with my keyboard.

For example, in The Rose’s Bloom my heroine was very self-conscious about her figure and how others perceived her because of it. All it took for her to overcome it was a strong and gruff hero to make her see herself as more than that stocky daughter with no prospects of marriage. While this is just a small part of who I am and what plays on me, it is still something I needed to get off my chest.

Yes, my hubby would just roll his eyes at me when I told him this, saying he loved me regardless and that he thought I was sexy, what should my insecurities matter? They still remained there regardless and I guess always will. But writing about Claire and feeling how much his desire and love for her overcame her insecurities made him the perfect hero.